His Ghost Remained
by lilyamongthorns
Summary: Claire/John, many years later. The two see one another one day, and no words are exchanged. Only a painful glance. Oneshot...?


AN: This came from nowhere, but it was very therapeutic to write. My Breakfast Club stories don't get much love, but enjoy anyways.

-O-O-O-

Life had never come to be the fantasy she imagined. She wouldn't say it was a naïve dream to be married to a rich, tall, dark, handsome man and live in a gated mansion. It was a comfortable dream. But it was a dream nonetheless.

Since high school graduation, she'd obtained a degree after four years of hard work—and hard partying. She'd married a good man, and she'd at least bought a two story home for her husband, herself, and their children.

It all happened quickly. It was almost blurry now in her memory. She was a starry eyed teen at the precipice of new life, and now she was a frazzled beauty consultant with two young children and a bruise around her wrist.

She could hear her own voice in the back of her mind, replaying like a vinyl record. She vowed not to become like her parents. And here she was. She didn't need anyone to tell her she'd changed. She knew that she had. And she hated it.

She threw the car into park and smoothed her skirt as she rose from the driver's seat. A short trip to the grocery store was her usual Monday afternoon routine, after work and fifteen minutes of stifling Chicago traffic.

Meticulously, she wiped down her grocery basket's handles and marched on, her worn black high heels clicking smartly against the concrete floors.

She hadn't ever wanted things to be like this. She used to see her life in color, her future walking some Milan or Paris street. And of course, she'd been there. She'd visited all the places she'd hoped to, and if she was going to be honest, life wasn't a complete wreck. That was just her dramatic side talking. But maybe the crushing part about it all was that her reality, no matter how present it was now, never seemed as beautiful as she'd dreamed it to be.

She threw a sack of oranges into the cart, pushing her way out of the frigid produce section and down the aisles. She was selecting a box of cereal for her son when she saw him.

It took her by surprise a moment, and she felt her head reel slightly. She couldn't place him for a split second, and then it clicked. The diamond earring in his ear caught the fluorescent light above, glinting just like those cheesy Technicolor sparks in cartoons.

He saw her, of course, but his face didn't show it. He just stared her down in that way of his. Eyes bright and hazel, seeming to turn molten as they took her in. His hair was still shaggy around his chin, and his face was rounder and fuller. He hadn't aged much, but enough that she could tell. At a time, she'd known everything about him. Every secret, every lie. Every truth, however few of them he chose to reveal.

She didn't say hello, and he didn't either. His lips thinned, and she suspected he was fighting back a smile. Then it blossomed. That stupid, cocky grin of his. He chuckled, as if he'd just proven every suspicion and thought about her correct. He turned his gaze away from her, only shortly to pluck a box of Frosted Flakes from the top shelf. He turned back to her, and gave her a nod, rattling the contents of the box in her direction. A crude gesture, and every bit John.

She sneered, but he'd turned and retreated. Back to her, shirt tail untucked and peeling, faded boots thumping.

Always retreating, she thought almost venomously. But never a coward.

She tucked a box of cereal in the cart, and left the aisle in the opposite direction he'd gone. She tarried in the deli section for awhile, just to bide him some time to leave before she herself checked out.

After paying the bored looking cashier with a scrunchie wound into her hair that didn't match, she returned to her car and loaded her groceries away.

Behind her, at the red light, an engine hummed noisily. She turned, glancing at the offensive sound. The sound that had rumbled over her parents' spotless paved driveway just years ago. The rusted red pickup was in even worse shape, more haggard and aged than its owner.

She watched, her cold milk and eggs warming in the summer heat as the truck she'd shared her first kiss, first beer, first breakup, sped over the cracking asphalt and away again.

It hurt, like a strange poison pouring down her throat. It was sweet and good, but lethal. It wasn't nostalgic. It was hateful, and angry. And really, she just wanted to rewind the tape. Not too far. Not back to high school. Her boring, strained, confined lifestyle didn't seem so important anymore. What mattered was ten minutes ago in the aisle. She wanted to reach up and slap the man. Because he didn't deserve it, and she was just selfish enough to give it to him.

She slammed the truck closed with too much force, making the springs twang angrily. It was strangely satisfying, and she drove home with the windows down, letting the wind blow through her cropped red hair.

She'd grown bitter, and she'd grown so just enough to be in denial of it. His face had brought it all back to the surface in one swirling moment. And it hurt, because he was right. He'd always been right. About her. About every single one of them.

And he always would be, so long as his ghost remained.


End file.
